I’m here, on this plane, winging my way to Vancouver and thinking about the fact that it’s been hours since I ran my last errand, and about the fact that this trip is supposed to be fun, and about the fact that I’ve had two drinks (one at the airport, one in flight) but have yet to relax, which is pretty telling when you think about it. Clearly, this adrenaline/starbys thing has gone a little far.
I mean, clearly my life has gotten away from me a little bit.
I figure I can spend the next four days in Vancouver getting back on track.
Now, before you start thinking that this post is going to degenerate into some kind of Emo Elf’s Lament (what?), I should make a few things clear:
1. I’m actually not complaining.
2. I actually LIKE being this busy.
3. Whenever it sounds like I’m complaining, I’m really (most likely) bragging.
I really am. I really do. I’m really not. Facts, the lot of ‘em.
Ultimately, being this busy (and to a lesser extent, blogging about it) makes me feel capable and powerful and on-top of everything. And when I say “makes me feel” what I really mean is makes me realize. Or rather, remember.
I may seem diffident and self-deprecating (particularly in person and maybe to a fault) but I think I’m like that in part because being like that masks a truer and less appealing truth about me, which is that I really think a lot of myself.
I mean, if I’m telling the truth, the fact is: I think I’m pretty fucking awesome.
And for all of my prostrating and apologizing, the real truth about me is that I rarely actually believe I’ve done anything wrong or made any real mistakes. All of my anxiety stems from the fact that I’m extremely concerned with you. All of you. And the idea that you might THINK I’ve done something wrong (WRONGLY, on your part, of course – egregiously so, because I HAVEN’T). And I really want you to like me. And so, I become concerned. But it’s not really for the reason you think it is.
These are commonly referred to as “issues” – as in “Jen Selk has issues.”
I do. I know I do.
So. Yeah. I may be (and most likely am) mentally unstable, but at least I’m self aware,right?
Anyway. The awesome LiveMap is now telling me that the disturbingly massive cartoon plane I'm sitting in has crossed the state line into North Dakota, which is relatively believable considering that there is a lit patch of city with a mottled edge like the meandering and asymmetrical border of a malignant mole blighting the night below. I’m guessing it’s Fargo. Or maybe Grand Forks. Or even Bismark. (Stupid LiveMap. I hate it.)
Regardless, I think it’s time to stop blogging. My hand is cramping anyway. And there’s a long weekend ahead. Must conserve emotional energy.
Vancouver looms, if not literally, then at least figuratively, and along with it will come the charred wasteland of my former life.The question is not so much about if you can (or can’t) go home again so much as if you should. Particularly considering the napalm.
I’m going to listen to some Neutral Milk Hotel on my ipod and wait for wisdom. I’m not wise, but the right answer might come to me anyway. I’m lucky that way. Whatever else I may be, I’m that.